Page 83 of Falling Off Script

For a second, I thought it was a hallucination. Or a prank. Or a divine intervention scheduled by the Feminist Internet to force me to wear pants again.

But no. It was her.

The one client I hadn’t completely let down. Yet.

I almost canceled.

Then didn’t. I dug out a semi-clean hoodie, brushed my teeth with the urgency of someone entering a hostage negotiation, and sat at my desk.

Because apparently, even a burnout spiral can be people-pleasing.

***

Rachel arrives five minutes early, holding a smoothie and looking like a human-shaped reset button. Calm. Fresh-faced. Post-glow-up energy. It’s vaguely threatening.

“Wow,” I say. “A living woman. Should I offer tea, or just the raw disappointment of my current existence?”

She holds up her smoothie. “Already hydrated. But I’ll take the disappointment to go.”

We sit. She crosses her legs like a woman with boundaries. I fold mine under me like a squirrel bracing for nuclear winter.

“So,” I say, trying to sound breezy and not like I’m dying inside, “how are things with Matt?”

She gives me a look that’s impossible to read, then nods slowly.

“He’s... back in the picture.”

My eyebrows do the Macarena.

“Back in the picture like... professionally photoshopped or magically resurrected?”

Rachel smiles softly. “We’ve been talking. A lot. And yeah... I’m thinking of getting back with him.”

I blink. Then take a sip of my cold coffee and make a face like it’s judging me back.

“Bold move.”

She tilts her head. “I’m aware.”

“You seriously believe he changed?”

“I do. No ultimatums. No makeover montages. He just... did the work.”

“Great. So I’m the only one in this narrative without a satisfying third act.”

She smirks. “You could start yours anytime.”

I deadpan: “Coming soon to absolutely no platforms: Emily Parrish Re-Enters Society.”

“Sounds like a hit,” she says. “Especially if you narrate it.”

“Oh no,” I say, holding up both hands. “I only podcast from a place of smug emotional superiority. That ship sank with my dignity.”

Rachel leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You really think people only listened to you because you had it all figured out?”

I shrug. “Well, the lighting didn’t hurt.”

She ignores me. “You think because you fell apart a little—because someone hurt you—you’ve lost the right to help other people make sense of their pain?”

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